Beggars on Holiday!

One of the predictable curiosities for expats living in Athens, Greece is the reality that almost everyone in this town takes a holiday in August. Sometimes, it’s the entire month; sometimes, it’s for two weeks; but, you can always count on very little getting done in August because nearly everyone who is normally here is somewhere else – on a sun-drenched island or a quaint village where great grandparents once lived and where the family still maintains a house!

The already, painfully slow Greek bureaucracy moves even slower during August. Mom & Pop street-corner businesses close completely, their windows and doors locked and shuttered down; the entire family is away, with signs left on the door wishing potential customers “Kalo Kalokairi!” “Happy Summer!”

The ordinarily clogged, tiny streets are much easier to navigate. Locating a parking space on my street in Pagrati is actually possible in August!

Among the “closed for holiday” businesses on my regular walking pathways, I have also noticed that the beggars are absent. The very-tanned young man with scraggly hair and dirty flip flops who ordinarily sits on a sheet of cardboard is nowhere to be found. The pre-teen Roma girl who holds a sign reading “Peinao” (“I hunger”) in one hand and, in the other, loosely cradles a crying, month-old infant with a dirty diaper is absent. Her treasured spot in the shade is vacant.

It caused me to ponder: Do beggars take a vacation? What do they do when not begging? Where do they go? Do they take their begging trade to a holiday spot? Are people on vacation more or less likely to give money to a panhandler?

While I am still searching for answers to those questions, it occurs to me that all of us –including you and me - are actually beggars of a sort! None of us, in our own right, earns the right to take a breath or to have a thought. Every one of us stands before our daily existential moments with our hands out, asking – yea begging – for another opportunity to live, to think, to breathe, to give, to receive and to become. What one of us has, in our own power, an inexhaustible supply of minutes to live and a guaranteed lock on a fully developed potential? Why is it that most of our prayers are selfish petitions, exposing us as beggars, asking God for what we want?

We are all, I insist, like panhandlers in this perilous, penultimate paradise of a world. While signs in the London Underground Metro warn that “Busking is not allowed,” every person I know lives most of his/her life in desperate need – of friendship, meaning, fulfillment, worth, legitimate response and other essentials. Although it is rarely in the forefront of our minds, all of us are very needy and unable, in our own strength, to meet those essential needs. Like a person who uses credit cards to finance a holiday, we travel about in our lives without knowing the full cost of our own mortality and rarely stopping to give thanks to the “ground of our being” (Paul Tillich) who generously gives “every good and perfect gift” (James 1:17) to us beggars.

“Hey, buddy! Can you spare me a dime?”

Another Trolley Ride!

Heading home from a downtown meeting with my Greek tax accountant on the same day that I sold the company car in preparation for our upcoming departure from Greece, I boarded trolley number 11. Well, I got on the trolley and grabbed one of those plastic wrist straps that hang from the ceiling. The driver was actually still in the street, arguing with the open-top, double-decker, tourist bus driver who had parked in his curbside passenger pick-up zone.

After a few minutes of in-your-face shouting and gesturing between the two drivers, as only Greeks can do, our guy hopped on board and, at last, we pulled away from the stop at Syntaugma Square. As we merged with too much traffic, the driver shouted several, well-chosen epithets, I guess, therapeutically to himself, but at a volume level which likely pierced the ears of most of those at the back of the bus. Another day at the office for this unshaven, shirt-tail-hanging-out jockey of one of Athens’ bendable, electric-driven people-movers, stuffed with folks like me, just wanting to get home.

Before we had travelled the distance of two city blocks, a boisterous argument broke out between a woman and a teen-ager, further up on the crowded, aluminum tubed, stiflingly hot, moving trolley. Since I couldn’t catch the gist of the argument, I asked the young girl next to me what it was about. She said, “They are having an argument!” (Duh!) Trying to be patient, I asked, “What is the nature of the argument?” In response, the now-bored and slightly irritated little girl in jeans and a tank top said, “This country has many problems. It’s the crisis. People get angry at other people.” I figured that was her final explanation, so I did not press further.

About that time, the pot-is-as-black as-the-kettle trolley driver stopped the vehicle in the middle of the street. To the accompaniment of a clamoring of auto horns, the driver used those same vocal chords which we had heard earlier and, looking into that long, rectangular mirror,  shouted back some words to the conflicted couple. Loud and with an irritated tone, he insisted that this type of boisterous, public dispute would not be tolerated on his bus and that these two miscreants should show some respect for him and his passengers and shut up! Lacking that, he asserted, he would be forced to kick the offenders off the bus!

As the trolley lurched forward, I noticed the extremely-short, almost-to-dwarf-sized, lady standing in the aisle. She nearly fell into the lap of a teenager who was proudly wearing a Miami Heat, official professional basketball logo shirt. When she regained her balance, she gazed up wistfully at the wrist strap above her head, slightly more than twice the reach of her child-sized arms. With resignation on her face, she shifted her tiny body-weight, as the driver moved us along, weaving from lane to lane, in search of some hard-to-find traffic advantage, against the flow of too many drivers, too much impatience and too little progress.

When we stopped at Agios (Saint) Dimitrios’ Church, the kid in the Heat jersey crossed himself three times in Greek Orthodox style - right to left to mirror the actions of the priest, as contrasted with Roman Catholic style - left to right. He concluded his religious gesture with a salute. I’m not certain if the salute was to the church, to God, to himself or to some of his friends who were disembarking at that stop. At any rate, I was impressed with the basketball fan’s finesse and gesticulating flexibility in merging the genuflection and the salute. Many Greek Orthodox people cross themselves when they pass a church. Although the official church position is that they are placing the cross on themselves, asking God for a blessing and remembering the Father, Son and Holy Spirit, functionally it serves as a sort of rabbit’s foot, carrying the same popular benefit as throwing salt behind one’s head, as a wish for good luck.

Indeed, in the midst of these times of difficult economic crisis in Athens, Greece, getting along with others at a superficial social level is about as likely as a dwarf-lady making solid contact with a public transit wrist strap made for normal-sized people. Whether from the right to the left or from the left to the right, with or without a final salute gesture, whether you follow the Heat or not, today will you join me in praying for this dysfunctional economic and social system in Greece and for all of my friends here who struggle to get along and to get home, while the trolley inches along in steamy traffic on a hot August day?

Lingerie in the Limbs

I know, I know. For my male readers, the title of this article conjures up images of that 60’s movie with Natalie Wood (Splendor in the Grass). I hate to disappoint you, but the back story is not all that sensual. Interesting, yes, but sensual – not so much! It’s just a small snippet of our soon-to-be-ending sojourn in Athens, Greece.

Even as I write this post, the movers are headed our way. After 9 years in Athens and 2 more in Tirana, Albania, Janice and I are preparing to return home to the US and to take up residence again in the great state of Texas. While we received much help in getting ready for the language and cultural acquisition upon departing the States and heading overseas, precious little attention is offered to help us to be ready to re-enter the country in which we lived most of our days. But, I digress.

The lingerie in the limbs adventure happened because, although we have a clothes dryer, given the warm, July days, Janice often hangs some of her nice semi-frilly things on the clothesline that came with our apartment, on the back balcony. Those of you who have visited us will recall that we live on the 3^rd floor, by European measure, but it is actually the 4^th floor from the ground. Some of you will also remember that beneath our back balcony the ground slopes even more with a descending driveway, leading into our underground garage. With that additional decline, our balcony ends up being 5 floors above the ground beneath it. Get the picture?

To complicate things further, on the property immediately adjacent to our building, a large tree grows, whose branches reach out above the driveway below. Now, if you have a mental visual on this, you will appreciate my dilemma when one of Janice’s nice things fell from its clothesline perch and landed on a tree limb. Of course, Lord knows it’s the man’s responsibility to retrieve all sorts of fallen objects from the mid-air clothesline, including his wife’s underwear.

So, now our Greek neighbors are talking even more about the crazy old American guy who was recently seen climbing a rickety ladder, with a long broom in his trembling hands. As the ladder rocked back and forth on the sloping driveway below, while standing on its top step, like Karl Wallenda walking the tightrope over Niagra Falls, this senior citizen kept thrusting the long broom into the air. Many observers, unable to see the tiny article of lingerie in the limbs, must have thought that the American guy had finally gone “around the bend,” “over the cliff” or whatever phrase Greeks use to describe the radical precipitous onslaught of dementia or senility.

After several tries, retrieving both the broom and my balance on every unsuccessful stab into the open air, my physical education teacher in the 7^th grade (who gave me a C in “maintains balance at all times”) would have been proud. I didn’t fall off the ladder! More importantly, in “the fullness of time” I speared those pesky undies, dodged the now-falling broom handle and head and proudly watched as down they came! And great was the fall of it!

Now, I don’t know about you, but achieving even modest success in challenging physical feats is becoming a source of great pride for me, these days. Since I soon will celebrate having lived and remained mostly upright on this wobbling, spinning planet for “3 score and 10” years, I am usually privately proud when I don’t fall down or when I don’t spill soup on my shirt front. So the next time you see me, if I walk with a slightly exaggerated swagger, or if you hear me saying uncomplimentary things about my 7^th grade PE teacher, you can just know that I have conquered the extreme challenges of lingerie in the limbs in Athens, Greece. Can I get an Amen?

Stolen and Sold Cheap!

Visitors to PORTA – the Albania House in Athens, Greece will recall that this cultural center for Albanian immigrants is located in a two-story, neo-classical house on the side of Philopappou Hill in the village of Koukaki, in the shadow of the Acropolis. If you visit on a Friday, you will observe that the Laiki (People’s Market) takes over our area. Vehicular traffic is prohibited on Zaharitsa (Sweet) Street, to enable farmers and merchants to set up stalls and sell everything from ladies underwear to fruits and vegetables. Vendors yell out their spiel, enticing the passersby to see, handle smell and even occasionally to taste a sampling of their precious goods. Well, no one has set up a stand for edible underwear, yet, but you get the point!

While Janice was shopping, I waited in the car. Since the Laiki commotion had my usual route blocked, I prepared to turn the vehicle around and head in the opposite direction. To survive in Athens, despite the narrow-streets, abundance of automobiles and dense population, we always have at least 2 routes in mind for travel. If the Laiki doesn’t block you, street closures accompanying a visit from German Chancellor Angela Merkel or a predictable and sometimes dangerous protest demonstration certainly will.

I engaged my best automated friend, the motion sensor which is activated when I hit reverse gear, and backed up carefully. Headed in the opposite direction, I looked in the rear-view mirror, with the impatient hope that Janice was soon to appear. Do you know that awkward moment when you make eye contact with a total stranger in the car’s rear-view mirror? There should be a Greek word for that!

We looked at each other. I watched, as motive, means and opportunity brightened his countenance. He approached the vehicle and sidled up alongside my driver’s side door before I could activate the power window button. He spoke with the artificially sweetened friendliness of a used car salesman. I responded in kind.

Then, he leaned in my window, his weary, unshaven, street-dirty face even closer to mine, and began to speak in conspiratorial tones. He willingly shared his halitosis. Certain that my personal space was violated, as he passed far beyond my comfort zone, I cracked open a linguistic alibi as an escape hatch from this conversation. Over my protest that I speak Greek poorly, I learned that the polyglot spoke pretty good English!

Sensing progress, he furtively looked around, checking to ensure that no one could see what he was holding in a handkerchief in his palm. Methodically, he unwrapped the soiled bandana. My eyes followed the dramatic unfolding of a gold ring with a diamond located prominently, along with a woman’s bracelet. After a few seconds he informed me that the bracelet alone would sell in good shops for 600 Euro. Then, he said, “I sell to you, meester, for 200 Euro!” When, in two languages, I said, “No, thank you!” he evidenced that he had passed the salesman’s exam on how to handle rejection. “I sell to you, meester, for 100 Euro!” “No thank you!” I repeated, with growing consternation. “I sell to you for 75 Euro - for your wife, your daughter, your friend girl!” (His English was not perfect!)

I sensed the need for a new strategy just as Janice returned to the car. The sidewalk salesperson exuded momentum. “For pretty lady?” he asked. Without bringing Janice up to speed and with no acknowledgement of his accurate assessment of my wife’s attractiveness, I started my car’s motor and said to him: “If these belong to you, you should never sell them for so much less than they are worth!” As I pulled away from the curb, the desperate, persistent man shouted, “40 Euro, meester?”

In this case, it was only jewelry – baubles to “prettify” someone’s hand. Sadly and more importantly, I run across far too many on the crooked, crowded streets of Athens whose lives and hopes have been stolen and sold cheaply.

“Everybody Stop and Change!”

On Sunday, September 3, 1967, I had recently moved into a graduate student apartment and was about to embark on an academic journey which would lead to my first master’s degree. My personal life was happily consumed with the delightful challenge of adjusting to the second year of marriage to the lovely Janice Ann Riley who, to this day remains my spouse, companion and best friend.

I could hardly have imagined the impact of an event an ocean away from me, since my self-absorbed world was …, well, self-absorbed. September 3, 1967 may have little significance for you, but it was a revolutionary day for the country of Sweden. I have no data regarding church attendance in that Scandinavian country on that particular Lord’s Day, but something akin to a modern-day miracle happened early on that morning.

While I was still sleeping, half a world away, they actually stopped the traffic on all the roads and streets in Sweden!  From 1 AM until 10 AM, circulation of non-essential Swedish traffic was prohibited. An army of road workers advanced on the empty motorways and changed every last one of the road signs.

Like a nationwide square dance caller, the entire country heard and responded obediently to a clear command: “Everybody stop!” But, instead of the instruction to “Change Partners!” the Swedes heard the injunction to “Change Lanes!” The country had decided to stop driving on the left side of the road and begin driving on the right.

While the automotive implications of this event fascinate me, I am thinking more about its symbolic implications for our current time. How utterly unthinkable would it be, in this modern day, to imagine an entire nation of people, with varied ages and types of vehicles, diesel or gasoline  engines, gun-racks or rainbow peace signs in the rear windows, differing socioeconomic classes, unlike political views, contrasting outlooks or spiritual experiences and a multitude of vested interests at stake, to act in such aggregate harmony!

Can you imagine trying to pull off such a current, simultaneous transformation? If a similar enterprise were attempted today, some would see an insidious attempt by “big government” to interfere with the “God given” rights of the citizenry to choose for itself. The paranoids would likely view it as some sort of conspiracy orchestrated by sinister known or unknown forces. Others would certainly protest that the “founding fathers” had ordained the “correct” side of the road on which we should drive our carriages and the ultra-libertarians would insist that mankind was meant to be free of such attacks on the “right to the pursuit of happiness.” Surely, some would interpret the Bible’s Book of Genesis or one of Paul’s epistles to prescribe proper driving habits or the Book of Revelation to predict just such an apocalyptic, end-of-the-world scenario.

The Swedes pulled it off; but, it was not easy! As late as 1955, 80% of the Swedish population voted no on a referendum to change the driving lanes. By 1963, when the Parliament approved the change and the Right-Hand Driving Commission was created, the logistical work of preparing for change began in earnest. Official vehicles had to be adapted, major intersections changed and many other alterations were needed, in advance. 3500 buses were altered. The tram system in the center of Stockholm was removed entirely. The big changeover for Sweden had a positive result. On the first day after the change, there were actually fewer road accidents than on the day before, presumably due to enhanced visibility.

Let’s dream together about those more-important-than-vehicular-commuting changes in our world that we know need to be made together and that just might enhance our corporate visibility. Can we gain from the Swedes traffic transformation and apply the learning to our own essential, personal or corporate renovation? I hope so!

More Than Just a Face Book Friend!

Pity the elusive mouse who must struggle to disconnect himself in the minds of youthful humans from the ubiquitous, plasticized, keyboard kind! Does anyone any longer recognize the fundamental literary distinction between Walt’s beloved “Mickey” and some cordless, unconnected robot rodent? What have we done with our words? Rats!

Shame on the unwashed who thoughtlessly seem unable to differentiate the dissimilarity in essence that divides a computer keyboard and one played upon powerfully by Liberace or pounded upon forcefully by the fiery Jerry Lee! Oh, how far has the never very noble Spam now fallen from its wartime usage as a marker for government-produced, cheap, mixed meat to its contemporary reference to the unwanted and quickly-consigned-to-electronic-hell of today’s easy come, easy go communication! And what has become of the serious obligation of equally serious deletion? Where is today’s cutting room floor?

Those who vociferously bemoan the disastrous decline in what was once considered polite, civil discourse might well spend a few well-chosen words of grief over the corruption of common communication. In addition to the sharp descent of civil conversation in the public electronic square, is it grammatically correct, always, insistently and increasingly to be angry?

O, brother, where art thou? Where have all the blessed beatitudes gone, long time passing? Blessed are those who need not place LOL after their messages to communicate their humorous intentions! Blessed is he or she whose written words can stand the light of clever inquisition without a preemptive smiley face! How sideways have become our smirking smiles, how crooked our occasional grinning communication! Those that live by spell-check shall face an equal and equivalent death!

How curious has the malfeasance of our modern speech construction become! How wearifying the written art is fast de-evolving! Perhaps nowhere is this language loss more obvious that the steep degradation of the treasured old-English word friend. “There is a friend that stickest closer than a brother,” it was once said and believed, in King James English; but modern friends seem to have little elasticity and even less stickability! To be a Face Book kind of friend is unlike any previous species of genuine friendship and surely bears no resemblance to the Quaker kind. A true friend does not ask to be liked! If it is sadly true that one can be unfriended and if friendship may indeed be a verb, isn’t it also true that authentic friendships are rarely so numerous as our electronic ones. Real friends neither brag about their number nor boast of their political or ideological inclinations nor ruthlessly exclude those with whom they might potentially disagree! Neither do they post only highly idealized or photo-shopped versions of themselves solely for other so-called friends or groupies to admire!

It is actually rare for authentic friends to complain publically to the unfriendly world of sleeplessness or send out detailed reports of intimate toilet habits to be shared with a host of so-called friends and many other unsuspecting passersby. If the tin-alley wordsmith once suggested of friendship that “it’s the perfect blend-ship,” there seems less and less to blend, so little longing for harmony. Gibran, after all, said, “Let there be spaces in your togetherness.” But, in our days, we seek uniformity of thinking and conformity of doing from our erstwhile friends.

What thinkest thou? In our speech and written communication, can we be no more precise and selective than this? Can we not observe some boundaries? Can we forego some less important things, in order to experience genuine communication with others? Can we, at least, think as much as we type? When our words cannot be more properly managed, what hope is there for our ways?

Chick on the Corner!

It was the beginning of the 21^st century and I lived in Houston, Texas, USA. I tended to observe immigrant struggles from the relatively safe and somewhat distant perspective of a privileged American. The fighting in Kosova, where Serbian soldiers attempted to terminate the majority Albanian population, had been halted by NATO intervention. In one of those instances where God’s timing interrupts my less-than-complete moral concentration, in January, 2000, I spent 7 days in Stockholm, Sweden. 44 of us from around the world met to draft accords on ethnic cleansing. There were no recognized words that expressed unequivocally that it is wrong to eradicate an ethnic group and most especially egregious to do so in the name of God. While helping to write those accords, I received a refresher on the history of Balkan ethnic and religious tensions.

I define it as providential that, just days after returning to Houston, the leader of the missions team in the congregation where I was pastor informed me that 500 ethnic Albanian families from Kosova had been relocated to Houston. I was shocked, because I had just been briefed on Albanian troubles during my Sweden visit and would return to Skopje, Macedonia (FYROM) in less than a year to sign those accords and lead a short-term ministry project among Albanian people. Almost immediately, our congregation began to care for these immigrants who had recently arrived in our “backyard.”

One day I made a home visit with an Albanian family. Their tiny apartment held a family of 7. In typical Albanian hospitality, they welcomed me and offered sweets and juice. Immediately, the family pet entered the room. As a seasoned pastor, I recognize the importance of acknowledging family pets. I have admired more puppies and cats than you can imagine! But, I was shocked when this pet strutted in and hopped into my lap because the beloved companion was a chicken!

After the father told me the chicken’s Albanian name, I inquired (with a straight face) “And, how did the chicken become your family pet?” The explanation was straightforward.  Coming home from night-shift work, he stopped at a traffic light. Without air conditioning, he had his car windows down; over the noise of traffic he heard the “cheep cheep” of a baby chick. Strutting proudly near his car door, amidst busy traffic, this little chickadee seemed to be requesting a rescue. Knowing that his family wanted a pet, but could not afford a regular one, he took the little darling home. And the rest, as they say, is part of Houston Albanian immigrant history!

You decide how to interpret this. Perhaps it reminds you of significant emotional enhancements gained from having pets around. Maybe it speaks of innovation in the midst of economic deprivation.  Perhaps you hear the tale of a desperate father, trying to provide for his children.

Almost a decade-and-a-half later, I understand immigrant struggles from a much more intimate viewpoint. Living as an immigrant myself and knowing many Albanians in Athens, Greece, I marvel at the sensitivity to essential necessities which is often serendipitously honed when a soul leaves his native soil. My personal experience with immigrants is that, despite the pressures and discrimination which they face, their personal losses often help them to understand better and encourage them to respond more positively to privations – both their own and those of others. Their ears have become sensitized and attuned to hear the desperate cry of the less-fortunate over the background noises which so easily conspire to drown them out.

 “He who has ears to hear …”

Undeveloped Lives!

In 2007, John Maloof went to a storage unit auction, placed a winning bid of $380 and won the rights to a cardboard box filled with never-developed photo negatives. A real estate agent and President of the Jefferson Park Historical Society in Chicago, Illinois, Maloof initially bought 30,000 black & white film negatives, placed on the auction block because their owner was behind on storage rent payments for the locker in which they had been kept for over 50 years. He would eventually purchase over 130,000 of the undeveloped snapshots made in the fifties and sixties by a Chicago woman named Vivian Maier.

Since developing the massive archive of negatives, John Maloof has introduced the world to the photographic work of the hitherto unknown nanny and amateur photographer. This remarkably talented woman is being hailed as the twentieth century’s premier street photographer. The spotlight of international media attention has illuminated her work through exhibitions in New York, London. Los Angeles, Oslo and Hamburg and a BBC documentary. Her poignant shots of everyday life in the American urban and suburban setting of the 50's and 60's seem, to many, to capture the soul and essence of the times. Many now refer to the woman as a “poet of suburbia,” or “Mary Poppins with a camera.”

And yet, for years, most of her work remained locked up in a storage unit. Two years after John Maloof bought the negatives, he discovered her obituary. At the age of 83, before her great talent was fully discovered, she died from complications resulting from a fall on the ice.

One wonders why Vivian Maier never developed her artistic photos. If she could not pay her storage rent, perhaps she lacked the funds to pay for film developing. Maybe she lacked confidence in her work, was insecure and hesitant to pursue her artistic talent or afraid to risk public criticism. Maybe life got in the way and other things which seemed more important kept her from getting around to it. It’s possible that, in her mature years, she regarded her youthful photos as nothing more than the naïve and foolish idealism of adolescence. Perhaps someone in a position of power over her insisted that she had no talent, that her pictures were a waste or that she should spend her time and money on something more sensible. We’ll never know.
 

How many gifted and talented people go to their graves with their photos undeveloped, their true beauty still in some sort of undiscovered storage? How many people of magnificence, potential and value live incomplete and unfinished lives, with their best possibilities still unexpressed? How many melody makers die with their music still within them, while the world remains bereft of their unique splendor?     

Oh God, give us more people like John Maloof who are willing to risk a bid and bring the unexposed treasure and worth of others to the light. And, pray God, may their undeveloped potential be discovered before they die!
 

Waffle House Choices!

Recently, we spoke for a banquet in Beaumont, Texas. Because our onward journey to Florida took us across several states and since we wanted to make visits en route, we travelled by car. We said quick goodbyes after the banquet and drove-on into the night. By 11 PM, we had checked-in to our motel and Janice was ready for sleep. Since I was convinced that I deserved a snack, I went out in search of something to eat.

I found a Waffle House nearby. A gaggle of late-night patrons filled the booths, so I grabbed a counter seat. From snatches of overheard conversation, I knew that my fellow diners were oilfield workers and regulars at this particular eatery. After placing my order, my sitting-down place being weary from the drive, I rose and began to read the material pasted on the grease-filled walls of this tiny, but hospitable place. Several worn posters celebrated Waffle House’s service to the public for over 50 years. This brand has been serving America’s short-order food needs with a largely unchanged menu since 1955.

I was stopped in my hungry, weary tracks by a poster that read: “283,115,520 ways to build a Waffle House 100% Angus burger. Better get started!”  My interest was aroused, my imagination was piqued and, for a few fleeting moments, I forgot my hunger. Who knew that there were so many ways to dress the humble hamburger patty!? Who knew that such diversity and choice existed from within modest Waffle House offerings!?

Over the next few days, crossing county and state lines on my journey, I pondered the potential of so many hamburger alternatives. Eventually, my mind wandered and I began to extend the truths of my Waffle House learning beyond its original sitz-im-leben to more metaphorical and personal applications. I wondered how social, economic, political, religious and interpersonal life might be richer and better if I and my fellow travelers on life’s road might stop to consider the many substitute choices hidden within all-too familiar situations. If an unpretentious meat patty at a common eating establishment affords so many options, then why does life so often seem limited, choices so constricted and viable alternatives so hard to come by?

Politicians, pundits, preachers and others in the public square too frequently present life’s challenges as though there are only two ways to go - their way or the highway! Because we have always dressed our hamburgers one way, it may be too easy for us to assume that there is no other way. When we face that old, familiar besetting sin or seemingly intractable social problem, surely we would benefit from considering the possibility that there may be other, better approaches to handling it. Just because we have yet to discover a cure for the common cold, there is no reason to assume that we have exhausted the list of potential solutions.

If Waffle House has thrived for over half a century by giving people choices, they just may be on to something foundational. Maybe my universe is a lot larger than I have imagined. Maybe I have more prospects than I have assumed, after all. The next time I feel hemmed-in, cornered by too few conceivable solutions in my life, I’ m going to pull over at Waffle House, order a burger (or pancakes and bacon) and think about it a little longer! Imagine the possibilities! Better get started!

Casey and the Ball! (a Contemporary Parable of Second Chances!

It was a powerful, non-verbal symbol recognized by every player on the old New York Yankees baseball club, during their successful 1956 season. When Manager Casey Stengel wanted to signal the identity of the person he had chosen to pitch for the next game, he would get to the locker room early and place a game ball inside the player’s spikes. As soon as the team checked-in to the dressing room and began to prepare for the game, one pitcher would learn in this way that he had been selected.

Indeed, on October 8, 1956, in Game Five of the World Series, when the Yanks were playing my boyhood favorite, their cross-town rivals, the Brooklyn Dodgers, the hurler selected by Casey that night learned his fate in just that way. Not even Casey knew that Don Larsen, the fellow who found the ball in his shoes that day, would pitch the only perfect game ever in a World Series contest and 1 of only 20 such games in major league baseball history! Larson took that ball from his shoes, rubbed it in the dirt, spat on his hands, warmed up and proceeded to face only 27 batters. Not 1 of them made it to first base!

Somehow lost in the back story of Larson’s perfect game is the reality that on his first trip to the World Series mound, in Game Two, he had a terrible night. When he entered the game, the Yankees were ahead 6-0. But Larson lasted only 2 innings, giving up 4 walks and allowing 4 runs before Casey had to pull him. He went to the showers that night convinced that his chance of playing in the 1956 World Series had ended in disgrace. Thanks largely to his ineffective hurling, the Yanks eventually lost the game they had almost sewed up before Larsen came in! After such a disastrous and brief stint, no one in baseball expected to hear from Don Larsen again.

If baseball is anything, it is a sport filled with symbolism & metaphor. In a powerful and non-verbal way, one man, Casey Stengel, signaled his confidence in another man, Don Larson, despite his earlier failure, by giving him both the ball and a big second chance. Larson would later acknowledge that it was precisely Casey’s willingness to trust him, despite his previous poor performance, that motivated him on that fateful baseball night in October, 1956.

It has been a long time since I played baseball. The Brooklyn Dodgers have long ago left town. Baseball is certainly a much different game, today. But, I’m convinced that our world, on and off the field of play, needs more people with discernment like Casey. We need those who can look beyond a fleeting fiasco to see permanent potential in the lives of others who, like all of us, occasionally botch up the game. In an ironic twist, it is usually true that second chances improve performance.

Do you know someone whose latent possibilities you can still see, despite the reality of their throwing a bad game?  What would it take for you to hang the game ball in their spikes?

From My Veranda!

The soft rain slowly fell just beyond the edge of the balcony. Because of its larger size, the Greeks here refer to this blessed appendage which hangs out over the street, four stories below, as a veranda. How cool was my elevated seat at noon on this October day in Athens! How sweet the smell of gentle rain! How privileged was I to sit at leisure, eating hot ham sandwiches and chips and drinking from a tall glass of chilly milk, enhanced by a not stingy but just correct number of ice cubes! Life is good! My purposeful preoccupation with a computer keyboard and small screen was blessedly interrupted by this further evidence of what the French refer to as la vie, the life which is my privilege, these days.

And then …. And then, my relaxed concentration turned to those far less fortunate than I. And then, it occurred to me that the rain so welcomed by me on my veranda was not at all hailed by those in Athens who no longer have a proper home and sufficient shelter. Immigrants (historically the poor in Greece) and now an increasing number of Greeks are facing hunger and homelessness in ever-growing numbers. Those whom the current economic crisis has pushed closer to and beyond the edges of the normal human comfort zone must surely not be enjoying this petite shower as much as I am. Raindrops falling on their heads are neither refreshing nor are they the stuff of carefree song lyrics. For these, even a tiny bit of rain brings inconvenience at least and moves their precarious existence a step closer to personal and familial desperation.

That wonderfully hot ham sandwich repast, the aroma of which filled our apartment and spilled over on our veranda, would certainly seem a fantasy to those for whom any type of warm meal is now a distant and fading memory. When I poured that tall glass of milk from the container, I worried not that the carton was emptied, since my Alpha Beta (Άλφα-Βήτα) supermarket was just a few blocks away; on Friday, our weekly shopping day, I will surely purchase more milk. But, many of my fellow comrades on planet earth for whom the crisis has drained their savings will have no such opportunity to obtain this life sustaining liquid.

What must a man of privilege do in the face of such crying need and economic disparity? Must I curse the conscience that brings the poor to my mind when I am enjoying life? Am I to ignore the plight of those who, often through no fault of their own, are in distress? Shall I shut my ears to the pleas of poor children who long for bread to eat and milk to drink? Or, shall I repent of my wealth, sell all that I have, depart from my vaunted veranda and go to live among the homeless on the streets of Athens? I am, after all, in this city because I care for the less-fortunate!

To conclude my meal, I pray and solemnly will to redouble my efforts to be the presence of Christ among the needy. I promise to take the energy and nourishment provided by ham sandwiches and milk and head out to help to feed Athens’ growing hungry, regardless of race, religion or background. I commit never to take for granted a day’s meal and always to offer as much of me as possible to help the helpless. I choose to eat less, so that others may eat more and to give more of my resources, so that those who have less may have actually more.

Oh God, may I never lose the dry, nourishing veranda view! For the sake of those who are wet and undernourished, I pray!

Lathos Intolerance!

One of the first phrases I learned in the study of the contemporary Greek language is lipame – Greek short-hand for I am sorry! As a stumbling practitioner of modern Greek, I learned this word rather quickly and easily, because I constantly make mistakes. Another, related word I learned the easy way (or the hard way, depending on your point of view) is the Greek word, lathos, meaning mistake. Because I often make grammatical and linguistic blunders and occasionally also make cultural errors in this Greek setting, I am often required to say, Lipame! Lathos mou! - I am sorry! My mistake!

While Greek friends are usually willing to overlook my poor pronunciation, improper word endings and inappropriate usage of tenses, internally, I have a low level of tolerance for these linguistic miscues. Somewhere along the line, I must have accepted, without giving it much consideration, the notion that my language fluency should be perfect. Unless I intentionally decide to give myself the benefit of the doubt, cut myself some slack and lighten-up, I can be harsh toward myself in this regard. I find it somewhat ironic that I give myself so much critical grief due to a notion of perfection which I have apparently uncritically accepted into my own internal mentality.

This idea surfaced again recently, when I was telling my advanced English language conversation students not to be so hard on themselves. Speaking to these adult language learners who come to class after a hard day of underpaid, manual labor, I suggested that their first goal should not be the development of perfect fluency, but, instead, to come to understand the English language well and to make themselves understood by others. Recently, I was counseling a new arrival in the United States who, despite the fact that he already speaks several languages, is anxious about his somewhat limited fluency in the English vernacular. I reminded him that, even with his struggles with this new tongue, he is already perfectly able to make himself understood, even though in a less than perfect manner.

While some may deem this a low diving board approach to adult language learning, my sense is that it is a reasonable approach to the imperfections which we all demonstrate – especially when it comes to language usage. But, every time I speak this way to aspiring language learners, I can see the eyes begin to roll. In language learning, we all seem to have what the Greeks might refer to as lathos intolerance!

But, intolerance of our incompleteness is not restricted to language learning. Most of us are similarly biased against our limitations in many other areas of life. After decades of dealing with struggling university students who may or may not have been making the dean’s list, I can report that I spent more time counseling the high achievers who missed the A+ by a few points than I did with underachievers who could not make a 2.0 GPA! Virtually every stunningly attractive coed with whom I engaged in meaningful conversation over the years always felt that she was, in some respects ugly, no matter how many beauty contests and class beauty awards she had won. I have known astoundingly successful professional people whose curriculum vitae would have made anybody envious, but who often express the sorrow that they have not achieved well. I know folks whose moral record is stellar, but who can never forget or forgive themselves for a mistake made years ago.

I have a suspicion that this lathos intolerance, if you will allow me a less-than-perfect usage of both the English and the Greek languages, has been driven into our psyches from our earliest experiences in education, sports, religion and even our families by our elders who struggle with their own incompleteness;  but, I could be wrong on that! Regardless of its origin, I wonder how much potential benefit and growth you and I have bypassed by our failure (if I may use the word) to claim the learnings associated with our failures! When our mistakes only cause us embarrassment and self-depreciation and cannot be owned, mined or harvested for our benefit, we are short-changing ourselves of potential added value!

I am not here to celebrate mediocrity and am certain that all of us could and should do better in many aspects of our lives; but sometimes I need to be reminded that only God is perfect and I am not – nor was I ever, since the fall of mankind, intended to be! Indeed, if the Bible teaches us anything at all, it is that we have all “fallen short,” (Romans 3:23), every one of us has “missed the mark” (sin, hamartia in Greek – 1 John 3:4). What is more, although our God is a holy and righteous God, it is his loving, gracious willingness to accept us, despite our mistakes, that is the basis for any salvation which we have any chance of receiving – in this world or the next.

If you happen to disagree with my words here, you should feel free to write this up as my mistake and accept in advance my words: Lathos mou! Lipame!

Do it for Dante!

Recently I learned that, due to the religious politics of the day, early in the fourteenth century, the Italian poet, Durante degli Alighieri, better known as Dante, was banished from Florence, Italy - the city of his birth. Dante and his “side” wanted Florence to be independent of the Vatican. Indeed, in the attempt to avoid conflict and craft a compromise with Rome, Dante travelled to the Vatican and was returning when the other “side” gained control back home in Florence. Just before reaching the city limits of Florence, Dante was informed that he was no longer welcome there. In fact, the new government of his favorite city announced that, if he should set foot in the city, he would be buried alive! With his wealth and his family held captive in the city of Florence, Dante was required to wander alone between cities in the north of Italy. He would never regain his property and would only reunite with his family briefly, months before his death, nearly twenty years later.

Banishment has been a powerful form of punishment for some time. Originating in Greek and Roman cultures, it has also been employed in countries such as China, Russia and England, as well as the United States. In past times, banishment was effective precisely because it separated a person from his settled community and means of maintaining a livelihood. The family of the banished was expected to join the authorities in the ban, bearing the shame and having no further contact with the banned person.  

In modern times, especially in religious or political disagreements, a less formal, but no less effective, form of banishment is utilized. Today, when we have personal disagreements, we tend to simply “write-off” those with whom we disagree. We feel uncomfortable around those who do not agree with us, so we downgrade their opinions in general, try to avoid all contact with or influence from them and choose to continue living our life as if the other person does not exist. If you have ever been active in a church or a social organization, you have probably been party to one of these informal banishments, or, at least, have witnessed one.

Short-term religious, theological or political disagreements often, sadly, have long-term consequences. Even after the original differences are forgotten, the distance, separation and emotional banishment may continue. Enmity between Christians, for example, over differences in theological persuasion or political outlook can be a death blow to a vibrant, affirming, continuing friendship. Sometimes, persons “freeze out” the other person, denying him/her normal social relationships without explaining or acknowledging the issue that caused the split. Many times, the “offended” and the “offender” can scarcely recall the nature of the offense, but just “know” that the other does not, in reality exist to them, any longer.

Interestingly, the banishment against Dante by the city of Florence was, at last, revoked in 2008 – nearly seven hundred years after the man died. I’m reasonably certain that few in modern Florence know and even fewer care why Dante was banished hundreds of years earlier. While we might be impressed that contemporary Florence has, at last, recanted its banishment of Dante, how much better would it have been if that decision could have come in Dante’s lifetime, when reparations and forgiveness could have been extended in a personal and relationally meaningful way.

If there is someone whom you have “frozen out,” someone about whom you would say, “he is dead to me,” someone who has been banished from the city limits of your soul, perhaps there is still time to remove the ban, restore the relationship and redeem the separation.  Maybe, at least, there is time to be caught trying! Do it, if not for Dante’s sake, for your own!

Simmering, Boiling and Tipping Points!

I am told that when Walt Whitman read Ralph Waldo Emerson’s essay, “The Poet,” he was highly influenced. When the young Whitman heard Emerson say that the United States needed a poet to capture, in a proper fashion, its national spirit and character, the ambitious and perhaps foolhardy writer decided that he was that poet! Whitman would later say, “I was simmering, simmering, simmering. Emerson brought me to a boil!” What followed, from the pen of Walt Whitman were such works as the ever-popular Leaves of Grass and other classics, revered today as great literature.

In December, 1996, the journalist Malcolm Gladwell published an article on the notion of a societal tipping point, that time when an emergent social trend crosses a threshold, begins to spread more widely across the culture and becomes a recognizable social movement. Gladwell later published a book on this notion and, today, the idea of the tipping point has passed a similar milestone of recognition, so that it now stands as a trustworthy description of social reality. As a sociologist who, decades before Gladwell’s insights, labored over a graduate thesis on social change, I recognize that he has described well a true social construct and our shared understanding has been enhanced by his keen observation.

Recently, I have been considering the relationship between Gladwell’s tipping point and Whitman’s “simmering, simmering, simmering” and being “brought to a boil.” Of course, all of us are influenced by tipping points and are “brought to a boil,” for one reason or another. Given the vitriol expressed often by so many on social networks these days, one might be justified in concluding that many are “simmering, simmering, simmering” and “brought to a boil” by the recognition that some tipping points have been crossed in our shared culture. But, while tipping points seem to be social in character and often are the result of macro cultural forces over which we seem to have little control, being “brought to a boil,” on the other hand, seems more personal. While both of these images describe forces seemingly largely beyond the power of the individual, the boiling point seems to evidence more personal decision and initiative.

It raises the question within me, “What do I perceive in my world that causes me to cross a line, to recognize that I and my fellow companions have crossed a line, that burns me up, or that motivates me to do something that previously had been lying dormant within me? While Gladwell’s  tipping point seems to be impersonal and reactive, the boiling point, at least for Whitman, was personal and proactive. It is actually quite refreshing to hear Whitman speak of making some personal decisions about who and what he wanted to become as a result of arriving at his own boiling point. While so many seem to be “steamed” about so much these days, and we often read their caustic remarks on social media, we more rarely hear of someone who determines to make necessary changes within herself/himself, as a result of arriving at a boiling point. That surely is because personal changes are more difficult, less appealing, more private and far less noticeable than incendiary rhetoric. Talk is cheap, but genuine, personal change requires far more than a few coins! Maybe it’s also because making significant alterations to one's life and lifestyle, especially when going against social trends, takes longer to make a social impact.

My own sense is that, public or not, immediate in impact or long-term in consequence, difficult to achieve or harder to pull off, our world today actually needs more of us whose simmering sense of moral outrage can be effectively channeled in a manner that actually motivates us toward greater transformation within ourselves! It looks to me like we’ve had enough of the “bitch/brag” or angry arguer syndromes. What we now need is deliberate, personal transformation. Perhaps, if more of us were willing to make internal personal changes, in a few years, we just might see some healthier tipping points in the social world at large.

 

Janice Bought a Whirligig for Our Front Veranda!

Janice bought a whirligig for our front veranda! With a multitude of bright, shiny colors, larger and smaller spinning wheels shaped like petals, it is truly a thing of beauty and a joy – at least until it breaks. The poor man’s stained glass object looked adorable while still in its clear plastic wrapping. Even this sometimes jaded, exceptionally frugal, old curmudgeon could justify the not-so-extravagant one Euro cost, purchased from the street vendor at the Laiki (people’s market) and regrettably, almost certainly, made in a sweatshop somewhere in an Asian country.

At home, this simple object-de-art was easily assembled and proudly planted, its plastic spike poking in the dirt in a pot, near the edge of our veranda. Almost before it left my hands, it commenced a rapid spinning motion, the small petals rotating furiously and the larger ones whirling recklessly and freely in the constant, ambient breeze of our sunshine bright, Athens front balcony. Solomon in all his glory could not have been more brilliant in color or hopeful in outlook! For moments, perhaps longer, I stood in rapture, watching the wondrous gyrations, marveling at the elementary engineering, revealing profound beauty that was already at hand, waiting for this simple device to channel it and deliver it to me, amid its brilliant revolutions.
 
At times, as I go about my too-cloistered and too-busy important life indoors, I catch a glimpse of the state of things on our front balcony. When no one else is looking, I peek beyond the sliding glass doors, to spy on our latest adult toy. Sometimes, many times, actually, it is turning and churning its little heart out, resplendent in all its temporary, multicolored glory. At other times, when all is still or when the sun has finally set, it proudly stands motionless, as if resting, less vibrant and less circling, but a no less viable, solitary and compelling work of art.

Methinks a parable of beauty is planted in that pot on my home’s front balcony. This simple artistic treasure, in ways powerful, spins and shines forth even larger and yet more colorful truths. Beauty is, indeed, all around us, ours for the beholding. But, this natural loveliness often awaits an elementary mechanism to catch our attention, as well as the wind’s cooling breeze and the sun’s brilliant rays. Curiosity and the craving to take notice are the simple means created by our Maker, at least potentially, in every one of us; these two are always essential for fuller and more blessed sightings in this dull gray universe of ours. When the Spirit moves or the wind blows, those who have eyes to see and are willing to risk the peril of looking can perceive the movement and the beauty. But, it is also true that even in the still and dark moments, the potential for beauty stands as near as my veranda.

Life’s spinning, glamorous wheels often go unnoticed by most of us, but they continue to spin anyway, showing us that beauty can never be halted or hated away. Oh, what cosmic and eternal waste we humans tolerate in our busyness and our lower-level preoccupations with less becoming things! At other times, when there is neither sun nor wind, the loveliness remains, powerfully present, like the intricate, well-placed panes of a stained glass window in the night's half-light or the petals of our little whirligig standing at silent rest,  just before dawn.

O God, thank you for creating light and movement. And, thank you, as well, for conceiving still and dark. Give me the grace, the grit and the gumption to discover the wind, uncover the light and enjoy life’s whirligig moments at their brightest and best, despite my pedestrian predispositions. But, O Mysterious maker of silence and stillness, may I also courageously learn how to cherish color and celebrate the wind of your spirit when it is still and dark!

Strawberry Fields

Before and during the Great depression, my grandfather, William Emmitt Newell, was a small truck farmer, living and growing his crops in the red dirt near Marion, Mississippi, just outside of the Queen City of Meridian. Grand-daddy raised turnips, tomatoes, potatoes and corn, gathered fresh eggs and sold chickens to city folks who missed the farm and its load of special treats.

Somewhere along the way, Grand-daddy, along with his brothers and some other small farmers in the area, decided to get into the strawberry business. With large families, the Newells always had plenty of help in planting, tending and harvesting this cash crop. Although sex-role designations of the day usually steered girls to indoor work, an exception was made in the matter of sweaty strawberry cultivation; my father and every one of his nine siblings had a hoe and a row and everyone was expected to hoe rows of strawberries!

When the juicy red berries, which my aunt named Marion Beauties, were ready for harvest, they would collect them, place them in those small, wooden crates, affix the prized Marion Beauty label for which the Newell boys (Grand-daddy and his brothers) were known, put them in the back of a Model T (which had been converted into a truck) and take them to the nearby railroad spur. Within a day, the strawberries were usually loaded on a large, un-air-conditioned railcar that waited at the spur and, later, connected to a train such as the M&O (Mobile & Ohio) which was headed off to market in St. Louis and elsewhere. On another occasion, I’ll tell you about the time the train didn’t show up on time and the Newell boys’ strawberries spoiled during the wait.

Although strawberry production is ancient, modern strawberry farms were introduced in Greece during the 1960s in the northern section of the country. Over the years, cultivation on a large scale has extended to the south, developing especially in the Peloponnese.  Today, in Greece, strawberries are grown on large farms and harvested by immigrant laborers from nearby Balkan countries, as well as countries in Southern Asia and Northern Africa.

Recently, in the strawberry producing area of Manolada in Greece, nearly thirty immigrant workers were beaten and two were killed when they stood up to their bosses and demanded to be paid. Strawberry growers allegedly opened fire on the unarmed protestors who asked for a paycheck after working without pay for six months. It is an open secret that, in exchange for the tiring job of strawberry cultivation, workers are forced to live in long, low, unventilated sheds, required to pay rent to their employers and rarely compensated for their labor. Since many of the workers are undocumented, the bosses expect that they can exploit them for profit with impunity. This is another form of human slavery practiced, often with government turning a blind eye, in this part of the world.

In November, 1966, the Beatles recorded a song written by John Lennon, entitled Strawberry Fields. Most Beatle-ologists now believe that John was recalling and reflecting on his personal sense of not fitting-in, from his childhood. Strawberry Field, the Salvation Army orphanage located on Beaconsfield Road in Woolton, Liverpool, England was the site of a much-loved annual fair, attended by John with his Aunt Mimi, following the untimely death of his mother. In the woods nearby, the shy little John often played alone, perhaps finding solace from the trauma and upsets of his timid, tiny world. If this song is featured prominently in the Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band album, which seems to deal with a return to childhood, perhaps John was expressing his own sense of early estrangement from the ordinary world.

John seems to have discovered a desperate, personal coping mechanism for life’s confusions when he says, “Living is easy with eyes closed, misunderstanding all you see.” But, he also gives voice to his personal angst with the line, “it’s getting harder to be someone.” Acknowledging a potent sense of isolation and estrangement, he admits, “No one I think is in my tree, I mean it must be high or low.” Repeatedly, in denial and escapist lyrics, Lennon counsels that the struggles of Strawberry Fields are, “nothing to get up about,” because, “nothing is real,” suggesting that his only recourse was to cower inside himself, in this self-imposed pretense.

I wonder how my Grand-daddy, that uneducated, but supremely ethical and honest man and devoted follower of Jesus Christ, might feel about the treatment of strawberry workers in Greece? I wonder if my father, a one-time strawberry picker, sincere Christian and deacon in his Baptist church, would identify with strawberry workers and insist that they be paid for their labor. I wonder if, like the imaginative John Lennon, my Grand-daddy and my Pop would tell me to close my eyes and pretend that “nothing is real?” I wonder ….    

Going to Church and Growing Older!

He was a friend of advanced age and faltering health. I was his Pastor, making what I thought was a routine home visit. Before his health had gone south, he had easily found other activities more inviting than church attendance. As he told me about his deteriorating strength and the recent word from his doctor that his time on this earth was short, I moved physically and emotionally closer to him; all of my training and my caring instincts signaled that he was about to tell me something that he felt was profoundly meaningful.

When I gave him freedom to express himself, he said, “Well, preacher, I guess I’ll need to get back to church. I’m even thinking about returning to that men’s Bible study class I used to attend.” “Why is that?” I responded, in my best client-centered counseling style. He looked at me as if this should have been evident to any man of the cloth and nearly shouted, “I’ll need someone to carry my casket when I die!”

Long ago, I was taught that religiosity persists when it provides either meaning or belonging or both. I recalled this anecdote recently when I heard the report of new research on the impact of loneliness and social isolation on human health (http://www.wbur.org/npr/175283008/maybe-isolation-not-loneliness-shortens-life). Scholars at University College, London based their work on a substantial body of research which has long shown that both loneliness and infrequent human contact can shorten one’s life and actually make one sick. The scientists expected to find that, when combined, these two risk factors would be especially dangerous.

Researcher Andrew Steptoe reported a surprising conclusion to his study: “Both social isolation and loneliness appeared initially to be associated with a greater risk of dying. But, it was really the isolation which was more important.” While persons with greater levels of loneliness are apparently more likely to die, it is also true that they are more likely to have other risk factors, like being poor and having chronic health problems. When these factors are controlled, however, the added risk associated with being lonely disappears, according to Steptoe’s research.

On the other hand, people who invest less time with family or friends or at meaningful social events are significantly more likely to die, regardless of income or health status. While it is a fact that loneliness among the aged hurts, actual social isolation is much more likely to kill!

If every person defines loneliness differently, it is also true that individuals have varying tolerances for it. Self-definitions of loneliness may be changing in the Internet age. Social isolation, on the other hand, is a more stable and more easily defined social reality, less influenced by subjective definition, remaining far more powerful. The rise of social networking may tempt some to believe that they are connected with others; thus, they are less likely to report themselves as lonely. But the lack of actual, human-to-human social intercourse, no matter how temporarily obscured by electronic connectivity, remains a powerful detriment to human well-being. Lack of meaningful interaction with others seems to be a causative factor in increases in both mortality and morbidity.

Miraculous drugs promise longer lifespans and contemporary cyber capacity may impart a fleeting sense of community and connective relief from isolation and loneliness. It remains true, however, that nothing enhances life’s health like ongoing, actual and affirming interactions with human beings around significant shared world views. Obviously, interacting with real persons in a supportive atmosphere has practical benefits; it can provide assistance in such everyday aging concerns as monitoring health symptoms, securing attention by health professionals and finding meaningful pursuits that help one to focus on other than personal problems. But something else seems to be at work here. Actual social interaction appears to enhance overall health and to encourage the will to live.

So, in the final analysis, lining up potential pall bearers may not be the only reason to return to church in one’s golden years. Early in the Bible, we are told that “It is not good for the man to be alone.” (Genesis 2:18a, NIV) Beyond the comfort of beliefs about the hereafter, the reflection on life’s (and death’s) absolutes and the investment in meaningful causes and younger generations, seniors may actually receive many here-and-now blessings by regular social interaction through church worship attendance and even by returning to Sunday School!

See you at church next Sunday!

 

The King Under the Car Park!

Some British scholars have long suspicioned that one of their former kings was buried beneath a modern parking lot. After much research by the University of Leicester, it was recently confirmed that, indeed, the remains unearthed there were those of Richard III, the last Plantagenet King of England. About 100 miles north of London, a group known as the Richard III Society recently and proudly proclaimed that DNA records from a distant relative now confirm that an excavated skeleton once held the body and bluster of the former king from the fifteenth century.

Richard Three was mortally wounded in the Battle of Bosworth, the last great skirmish over the crown in the War of the Roses. The dead or dying Richard was flung naked across a horse and carried back to Leicester. Sometime after his death, his remains ended up buried in the local church. Not long thereafter, Henry the Eighth trashed the church and, in current time, that very sacred space has become a profane parking lot.

Modern-day archaeologists unearthed the skeleton in an earlier dig. Since Richard III had scoliosis and since the skeleton evidences a curved spine, secondary proof provides additional confirmation to the DNA verification. Apparently, poor Richard had his buttocks punctured and his head decapitated, likely due to the nasty and symbolic acts of his enemies in the immediate post-battle celebrations surrounding the death of the monarch. There is now a plan afoot to reinter the royal remains within the currently sacred space of Leicester Cathedral, an American football field’s length from the current car park.

This scenario got me to thinking about the fickleness of human fate, the transient nature of social geography and the limited potency of once-powerful earthly institutions. Kings and potentates, especially in conflict-ridden lands and times often conclude their lives in very un-royal circumstances. Remember the once imperial, egregiously powerful and fabulously wealthy Saddam Hussein, who ended up hiding, like a rat, in an underground Iraqi hole in the ground, with some unused jockey shorts as his only treasure? But, I have also seen similar things happen among the un-royal. As the one-time Pastor of a church located in the wealthiest zip-code in Houston, Texas, where dirt still sells for at least a $1 million an acre, I witnessed, up-close, the final state of some very rich and powerful people. I can attest to the reality that times change, power is fleeting, even lots of money is no guarantee of long-term dignity and, of course, death comes to all of us. A once-proud and powerful king buried beneath a common, utilitarian slab of asphalt or a once-sacred space that now is striped so that people can park their motorcars and “pay & display” – these are but parables of what happens to every one of us and much of the terra-firma that is hardly as firm as we would like to believe.

All of this got me to thinking, not so much about real estate gentrification or decline, but about what “permanent footprint” I and my cherished institutions should aim to leave on this planet. If the ecological people have alerted us, and rightly so, to the effects of our individual and corporate “carbon footprints” which we leave on the earth’s surface, I am wondering, today about the emotional, ethical, moral or historical “footprint” I and my family, my church, business or school should aim to leave behind. Knowing that, someday, like old Richard Three, most of what I have worked hard to build, as well as my time-worn and battle-scarred bones will be erased or entombed somewhere in a humble, dark and unrecognizable place, what evidence that I once lived do I want to remain?  What, indeed, do I wish to leave behind as a legacy?

As I reflect seriously on these existential and indeed extraterrestrial questions, I am convinced that most people actually care little about a fancy gravesite or an elaborate marker representing their lives or institutional efforts. Despite messianic visions and selfish needs to make an impact or to leave a “mark” on this old world, our powers are actually quite limited and our time is always shorter and less than we want to admit. How about you? What are you up to in the “here and now” that has a “snowball’s chance” of being significant, beyond the ravages of time? What message would you aspire to “shout out” from beneath the car park?